Chapter 5: The Investment Strategy
The Hawkins Public Library had a business section most people ignored.
I spent August there, buried in financial newspapers and investment guides from the past decade, pretending to research "college planning" while actually memorizing which companies would explode in value over the next few years. Apple Computer. Microsoft—still private, but they'd go public eventually. IBM investing in personal computers. Early tech that would define the future.
My future. This timeline's future.
The knowledge sat in my head like stolen goods. Insider trading from another dimension. But if I was going to prepare for the apocalypse, I needed money that wasn't dependent on my parents' guilt-fueled handouts.
My father came home in late September, staying three days between Tokyo and Geneva. I caught him in his study on the second night, drink in hand, reviewing contracts that probably meant more to him than his son.
"Dad." I stood in the doorway. "Can we talk about my college fund?"
Richard Harrington looked up, surprised I'd initiated conversation. "College? You're fifteen."
"Sixteen in December." I walked in, carrying a notebook filled with research. "I've been thinking about my future. About building wealth early instead of waiting until after graduation."
His eyebrows rose. Interest sparked—the first genuine attention he'd paid me in months. "Go on."
I sat across from him, opened the notebook. "Personal computers are the future. Everyone's going to have one eventually—homes, businesses, schools. The companies building them now are undervalued. If we invest early..."
"We?" Suspicion crept into his tone.
"I want to learn." I met his eyes directly. "You're successful. You understand markets. I'd like you to teach me by setting up a trust account. Small investments in tech companies. I'll research, make recommendations, and you approve or reject them."
Richard Harrington studied me like I was a stranger. Maybe I was—the original Steve never cared about business, never sought his father's approval beyond asking for money.
"What companies are you thinking?" he asked slowly.
I flipped pages, showing him analysis I'd copied from library resources. "Apple Computer. They're about to release something called the Lisa—it'll fail, but their next project will revolutionize personal computing. IBM just entered the PC market. And there's a startup called Microsoft that's partnering with IBM on operating systems."
"You researched all this?"
"Library. Business journals. Annual reports." All true. "I want to understand how wealth is built, not just inherit it."
Something shifted in my father's expression. Pride? Surprise? He finished his drink and stood. "I'll have my broker set up a custodial trust account. Five thousand seed money. You make recommendations, I'll approve reasonable ones. But Steve—this is real money. Not a game."
"I know." I stood too. "That's why I'm taking it seriously."
He extended his hand. We shook, formal and distant, but it was more contact than we'd had in months.
"When did you grow up?" he asked quietly.
When I died and woke up in your son's body, I thought. "Recently," I said instead.
The first investment went through in October: two thousand dollars into Apple stock at thirty-eight dollars per share.
My father's broker called it "risky" and "volatile." Richard approved it anyway, curious to see if his son's research would pay off. By December, Apple had climbed to forty-five dollars. Seven dollars per share profit on fifty-two shares. Three hundred and sixty-four dollars in three months.
Not life-changing money. But proof the system worked.
I documented everything in my coded journal, calculating projected returns over the next decade. If I played this right, I'd have genuine financial independence before graduation. Money to buy equipment, fund operations, establish safe houses.
Money to fight monsters.
Eddie found me at my locker in late November, bouncing with nervous energy.
"Dude," he said, voice low. "Hellfire's doing a marathon session this Saturday. Boss fight, epic conclusion, the works. You should come watch."
"Why?" I closed my locker. "I don't play."
"Yeah, but you give good advice." Eddie grinned, all wild hair and manic enthusiasm. "Plus, we're ordering pizza and I'm broke. So if a certain King-Steve-in-training wanted to fund our nerd activities..."
I laughed despite myself. "You're bribing me with my own money?"
"I prefer to think of it as crowdfunding our friendship."
"Smooth." I considered. Hellfire Club would eventually be crucial—Dustin and Mike would join in a few years, Lucas too. Building connection with Eddie's group now meant easier integration later. "Okay. I'll bring pizza. But I want to actually understand what's happening, not just watch you roll dice."
Eddie's face lit up. "Yes! Okay, so here's the campaign structure..."
He explained for twenty minutes, gesturing wildly, completely oblivious to students staring at the metalhead and the jock having an animated conversation about elves and dragons. I absorbed it all—the lore, the rules, the story Eddie had been building for months.
It was brilliant. Genuinely creative worldbuilding that most people would dismiss as "nerd shit" without ever appreciating the skill involved.
"You're good at this," I said when he finished. "The storytelling. Character voices. World consistency."
Eddie blinked. "Most people think it's stupid."
"Most people are stupid."
He laughed, loud enough to make Carol glance over from where she was gossiping with friends. Her expression soured when she noticed me talking to Eddie, but I ignored her.
"Saturday," Eddie confirmed. "My place, six PM. Bring pepperoni and your capacity for dramatic combat narration."
"I don't do dramatic narration."
"You will by the end of the night." He walked away backward, still grinning. "Resistance is futile, Harrington!"
Eddie
Steve Harrington showing up at his trailer with four large pizzas was surreal enough.
Steve Harrington sitting on Eddie's ratty couch, actually paying attention to the campaign while the Hellfire seniors debated strategy? That was some alternate-dimension shit.
"The dragon's obviously weak to ice magic," Steve said during a break, grabbing another slice. "You guys keep hitting it with fire spells. That's its element. Try the opposite."
Jeff, the group's sorcerer, stared. "How do you know that?"
"Basic logic? Fire dragon probably lives in a volcano. Ice would be its natural weakness."
Eddie watched Steve integrate seamlessly into his group—asking questions, making observations, offering tactical suggestions that were actually smart. No mockery. No condescension. Just genuine interest.
Who is this guy?
The Steve Harrington everyone knew was popular, confident, destined for social dominance. But this Steve helped nerds with D&D strategy and bought pizza without expecting anything in return. This Steve defended Eddie from bullies and never asked for recognition.
Eddie had spent two years waiting for the punchline—the moment when Steve revealed it was all a joke, a long con to humiliate the freak. But the punchline never came.
Instead, Steve kept showing up. Kept being decent. Kept acting like Eddie was worth his time.
It was unsettling. And kind of amazing.
"Okay," Eddie announced after the dragon fight concluded spectacularly. "Steve Harrington is officially the Hellfire Club's patron saint. All in favor?"
Hands raised around the room. Steve looked embarrassed but pleased.
"Do I get a title?" he asked.
"The Paladin of Pizza," Eddie declared solemnly. "Defender of nerds, slayer of bullies, bringer of pepperoni."
Everyone laughed. Steve too, genuine and relaxed in a way Eddie had never seen him at school.
Yeah, Eddie thought. We're actually friends. Weird.
Steve
December arrived with biting cold and social recalibration.
Tommy cornered me after basketball practice, frustration radiating from every movement. "Dude, what's your deal lately?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean." He gestured vaguely. "You're hanging with freaks. That Munson kid and the band geek. You walked away yesterday when me and Carol were having fun with those AV Club losers."
"Fun." I grabbed my gym bag. "You mean mockery."
"It's just jokes, man."
"It's bullying." I faced him directly. "And it's boring. Don't you have better things to do than make freshman cry?"
Tommy's jaw tightened. "Since when do you care?"
Since I died and came back knowing exactly how this story ends, I thought. Since I realized high school cruelty is meaningless when actual monsters exist.
"Since I grew up," I said instead. "Maybe you should try it."
I left him standing there, confused and angry. Carol caught up with me in the parking lot, her expression calculating.
"You're choosing sides," she said. "King Steve doesn't hang with losers."
"Then maybe I'm not King Steve."
"You will be." She smiled, sharp and certain. "You're too good at it to walk away. This is just a phase."
"Maybe." I unlocked my car. "Or maybe I'm deciding who I actually want to be instead of who you think I should be."
Carol's smile faltered. I drove away before she could respond.
The distance grew throughout December. Tommy and Carol still invited me to parties, but the invitations came with unspoken conditions: be cruel, be shallow, be the King they expected. I declined more often than I accepted.
Eddie and Robin filled the gaps easily. Real conversations instead of performative popularity. Actual friendship instead of strategic alliances.
My sixteenth birthday came on a Tuesday. My parents called from Tokyo—five minutes of awkward small talk before they remembered they had a meeting. No cake. No celebration. Just another day in the empty mansion.
Until Robin showed up after school with Eddie trailing behind, carrying a homemade cake that listed slightly to one side.
"Surprise?" Robin said, grinning. "Eddie baked. I supervised. It's probably edible."
"Definitely edible," Eddie corrected. "Possibly delicious. No promises."
They'd brought movies—The Evil Dead and An American Werewolf in London. We ate questionable cake in my basement, watched practical effects and fake blood, and argued about which transformation scene was better executed.
It was the best birthday I'd had in either life.
"Thanks," I said later, after Eddie left and Robin was gathering her things. "For this. For being..."
"Friends?" Robin supplied. "Yeah, well, you make it easy. Despite the whole mysterious-training-montage-in-your-basement thing."
"Still can't explain that."
"I know." She pulled on her jacket. "But when you can, I'm ready to listen. Whatever you're preparing for—you don't have to do it alone."
My throat tightened. "I'll remember that."
Robin left, and I sat in the basement surrounded by training equipment and empty cake plates, feeling something I hadn't felt since waking up in this world: genuine gratitude.
I had real friends now. Not strategic alliances or carefully cultivated connections, but people who showed up with crooked cakes and bad movies because they gave a damn.
That mattered more than any amount of preparation or planning or future knowledge.
That was worth protecting.
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